“I didn’t even get a chance to shoot up today. What a fucking bummer. This shit hurts like a motherfucker.”
“Don’t talk, man. Save your strength.” Sal turned to Bobby and shouted, “Get me a fucking medevac! Now!”
“Charlie Six this is Charlie Three. We need a medevac at coordinates 09er326, over.” Listening momentarily, Bobby looked to Sal. “We got one on the way.”
“Sal, you ain’t gonna forget me? Are you?”
“Hell no! We’re fucking brothers, remember?”
“Yeah, brothers!” Angel stammered, forcing a smile.
“Angel, you gotta hold on. Okay?”
Sal watched as the medevac touched down in a nearby clearing. Swiftly, he and the medic loaded Angel onto the Huey. Angel reached up and held Sal’s hand tightly. “I guess this is it, hermano.”
“Angel, you gotta fight if you wanna live. Show me somea that Spanish Harlem toughness you’re always bragging about.”
Angel laughed and more blood spurted from his mouth.
“Don’t give up! Awright. I’ll see you soon. Don’t worry about it!” Slapping the side of the Huey, Sal screamed to the pilot, “Get him the fuck outta here!”
The pilot nodded and the Huey lifted-off. Tears welled in Sal’s eyes as he watched his friend being air-lifted out with what could only be a fatal wound. Gradually, Sal shifted his focus from the sky back down to the battle raging around him. In a surreal moment, the sounds of war fell silent, and all Sal could see were some patches of white smoke shaped like men slowly drift across the battlefield. Images of his friend, Adam, the three soldiers shot by the Vietnamese boy, and the fear on Angel’s face flashed through his mind. Wiping his tears, Sal gritted his teeth and took off running toward the enemy. Firing his weapon wildly, Sal screamed, “Motherfuckers!”
The enemy returned fire, squeezing off round after round at the foolish American sprinting toward them. Miraculously, as if protected by some unseen force, Sal didn’t get hit. Bullets whistled by him only narrowly missing their mark. Running right up on the enemy’s position, Sal jumped into their foxhole and shot everyone in it. Five men lay dead on the ground. Three more NVA soldiers jumped into the foxhole. Battling them hand-to-hand, Sal managed to wrestle them to the ground and draw his bayonet from its sheath. Slicing one man’s throat, Sal then killed another by ramming the long blade through his chest. Sal then picked up an AK-47 and he riddled the last man’s body with bullets. “You killed Angel. You killed him!” Sal screamed as he continued to shoot up the bodies.
Jumping into the hole, Bobby snuck up on Sal from behind and grabbed him in a bear hug. “Sal, they’re dead! They’re all fucking dead.”
In one swift move, Sal broke free from Bobby’s grasp. Spinning around, Sal raised the weapon up and pointed it directly at Bobby’s face. “Don’t shoot!” Bobby yelled, fearfully.
Breathing heavily and covered from head to toe in the blood of the men he just massacred, Sal muttered dangerously, “Don’t ever fucking do that again!”
“You got it, Sal!” Lowering his hands, Bobby smartly jumped out of the foxhole, putting some distance between himself and Sal.
The devastating air strike, coupled with Sal’s fearless attack, served to stymie the enemy’s resolve. The remaining enemy forces scattered into the jungle and the fighting ceased as suddenly as it began.
Climbing out of the foxhole, Sal took a seat on the sandbags surrounding it. His thoughts were of Angel and the look on his face just before the Huey lifted-off. As other soldiers began to mill around, Sal placed his hands over his face to shield his sorrow. Like scavengers, the men in his unit rifled through the uniforms of the dead VC and NVA soldiers searching for documents, papers, souvenirs, and anything else they thought was of value.
Lieutenant Symonds, a tall, young, thin twenty-one-year-old kid fresh out of R.O.T.C. approached Sal with a big shit-eating grin on his face. “Scalise, that was one of the stupidest acts of bravery I’ve witnessed since I came to this God-forsaken place. I can’t believe you’re not KIA after that stunt.”
Dropping his hands, Sal fired a deadly stare at Symonds.
“I’m gonna put you in for a commendation as soon as we get back to base camp. If I had two Battalions of men like you, Scalise, I could win this war myself. You really are one crazy fucking grease-ball.”
“What the fuck did you just call me?”
“I didn’t mean anything by that, Scalise. I...I heard Sergeant Beckman call you much worse!”
Now frightened, Symonds took several steps backwards as Sal slowly moved toward him. “I’m an officer! You don’t want to get into any trouble. Do you?” Symonds pleaded frantically.
“You’re the one that’s in trouble!” Lunging at the Lieutenant, Sal seized him around the throat, and wrestled him down into the foxhole. Out of sight from the other men, all the overmatched Symonds could do was faintly call out, “Somebody, help me! Please!” While Symonds lay on the ground, Sal continued to pummel the defenseless officer. Sal rose to his feet and kicked him several times in his ribs with his blood-soaked boots. Amused by the spectacle, other soldiers amassed around the foxhole. Finally, Bobby jumped back into the hole and pulled Sal off of the Lieutenant. “Sal, that’s enough! He’s had enough!”
Symonds lay on the ground unconscious, covered in his own blood. Still fired-up, Sal paced in the hole ranting, “It’s not enough! He’s getting good men wasted, like Angel and Adam, ’cause he’s fucking stupid! You hear what I’m saying? It’s not enough!”
Stepping down into the foxhole, Sergeant Beckman wisely positioned himself between Sal and the Lieutenant. Hunching over his body, Beckman checked Symonds injuries. With little sympathy for the young officer, Beckman pointed out, “Maybe it’s not enough, Scalise. But you ain’t gonna hit the LT anymore. You put it on him pretty good. He ain’t ever gonna forget this day.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever you say.” Climbing back out of the foxhole, Sal started to collect his belongings.
Glaring up at the men standing around watching, Beckman yelled, “Get the fucking medic over here. The LT needs attention.” Pointing out two specific individuals, he ordered, “I need you two men to carry the Lieutenant to the LZ. We’ll deal with this shit when we get back to base camp. Listen up, police up all your shit, and don’t leave nothing for the gooks. We got choppers coming in to get us the fuck outta here. Let’s move, motherfuckers!”
Scrambling to gather up their weapons, ammo, and anything of value to the enemy, First Platoon hastily trekked to the LZ. They loaded back onto the choppers and the American forces were gone in minutes. All that remained to tell the tale of the battle and the bloodshed were the scarred landscape and the small brush fires still burning in the jungle.
* * * * *
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
A sign on the front of an unassuming two-story brick edifice that looked more like an office building than a Military Prison announced, “STOCKADE.” Inside one of the many cells, Sal sat on a bunk smoking a cigarette with his feet up on an old wooden chair. The cage was drab and sterile with a view of nothing but the row of steel bars of the empty cells across from him.
Entering the confinement area, a guard unlocked the barred door for a man dressed in light-colored civilian clothes and carrying a file. The curious stranger was well-built, better than average looking, six-foot tall, clean shaven, with short grayish hair, steely blue eyes, and a pale complexion. Locking Sal’s cell door behind him, the guard then left the area.
“Scalise, my name is Wilson,” the man said cordially, offering his hand.
Sal walked past him.
Feeling snubbed, Wilson muttered, “Okay?”
“Are you my lawyer?” Sal inquired angrily as he paced from one end of the cell to the other.
“No, I’m not your lawyer.”
“Then what the fuck do you want?”
Taking a seat on the chair, Wilson opened the file and looked it over. “I see here you like to hit officers?”
&n
bsp; “Are you an officer?” Sal taunted.
“No.”
“Then what the fuck do you want from me?”
“You know, you probably would’ve gotten a medal for what you did out in the field that day. I gotta tell you, it was pretty damn heroic. Instead, you’re going to prison. Quite a turn of events, huh?”
“Who the fuck are you, man?”
“Who I am isn’t important right now. All I want to know from you is this...do you want to go to prison?”
“What kind of a stupid fucking question is that?” Sal fired back as he drew a lighter and a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. Lighting the cigarette, he continued to pace back-and-forth like a caged animal.
“It’s a simple question. Even a dumb fuck like you can answer it,” Wilson responded in a relaxed tone.
Flicking the cigarette through the bars down onto the floor, Sal slowly moved behind Wilson. “Are you fucking crazy? You come into my cell and start fucking with me, knowing I got nothing to lose if I crack your fucking skull wide open.”
“Just answer the question.”
“I ain’t answering nothing, scumbag.”
“You don’t want to answer the question? That’s odd. Is it because you’re just a stupid fucking grease-ball who can’t put his thoughts into words, or you don’t feel like talking?”
With an angry roar, Sal attacked Wilson from behind and choked him. “I’m gonna fucking kill you!”
Coolly reaching up, Wilson took hold of Sal’s wrists and easily broke his grip. Rising from the chair, Wilson twisted Sal’s wrists counterclockwise, until finally, Sal had to flip his body to the ground to avoid having them snapped. Sal hit the concrete floor hard, but he sprung right back to his feet, ready for another go. Wilson connected with several short quick punches to Sal’s face. Then Wilson took hold of Sal’s arm and flipped him to the floor.
Calmly, Wilson sat back down on the chair. Lying on the floor bleeding and confused, Sal struggled to comprehend what had just happened. Gazing down at him, Wilson asked sedately, “Well, Scalise, are you going to answer my question?”
“Who the fuck are you?” Sal shouted with daggers in his eyes. Climbing up from the floor, Sal brushed himself off. “Now, I understand. You’re with the fucking agency, ain’t you? Yeah, that’s it. You’re CI-motherfucking-A. What the fuck does the agency want with me? I’m a soldier. I don’t kill women and children.”
Rising quickly, Wilson kicked Sal in his face and landed two devastating body blows. Again, Wilson took hold of Sal’s arm and flipped him to the floor. “Now, are you ready to answer my question?” Wilson asked as he sat back down.
“Fuck you!” Sal snarled and spit at Wilson.
Glaring down at the droplets of blood that now stained his pant leg, Wilson explained, “I’m really getting tired of kicking your fucking dumb wop ass, Scalise. So why don’t you do us both a favor and answer my question so we can get on with this.”
“What the fuck do you want from me, man?” Sal’s tone suggested that he had enough.
Helping him up, Wilson set Sal down on his bunk. “Look, Scalise, I’ve lost some good men, and I don’t have time to wait for replacements. My operations can’t afford to be shut down for any length of time. And truthfully, I really don’t have the patience to wait for some fool to decide if he wants to be a free man or not. I know everything there is to know about you. I can use a good soldier like you on my team. I can arrange to have all the charges against you dropped, but if I do, your ass belongs to me. Roger that, troop?”
“I’m listening.”
“You have six months left on your second tour. If you join my team, it’ll be like you never hit that asshole Symonds. When your time is up, you can re-up, go home, or do whatever the fuck you wanna do. So what do you say? Are you in or out?” Removing a handkerchief from his back pocket, Wilson tossed it to Sal. “Here, wipe your mouth. It’s bleeding.”
“If I join your team, will you teach me some of that gook martial art shit?”
“That and a whole lot more. Chances are you’ll probably get killed anyway. But if you don’t, after six months on my team, you’ll be one bad ass wop.”
“Are you intentionally trying to piss me off?”
“Yes, I am. Be advised, Scalise. If you pull any of that cowboy shit with me that you pulled out in the field, I swear to God, I’ll cut your spaghetti eating ass up into little fucking pieces and mail you back home to the Bronx. Roger that?”
“Yeah, yeah, I get the picture. When can you get me the fuck outta here?”
“Let’s go.”
“What? Just like that?”
“Are you hard of hearing, asshole? I said, ‘Let’s go.’ Your ass belongs to me now.” Turning ever so slightly toward the bars, Wilson yelled, “Guard.”
The M.P. reappeared and opened the cell door. Wilson led Sal out of the front door, down the steps, and into a waiting jeep.
“What about my gear?”
“It’s all there.” Wilson tilted his head toward the back seat.
“Is this everything?” Sal asked concerned.
“Yeah, I packed it myself.”
“I had a picture...”
“Are you fucking stupid...I said I packed everything, troop.”
“How did you know I would come with you?”
“Because it’s my business to know what every dink, slope, gook, wop, mick, nigger, chink, jap, frenchy, wetback, limey, and spic around me are going to do before they do it.”
“Where the fuck do you people come from?”
“That’s classified, asshole. Oh, by the way. Symonds might have severe brain damage. It’s okay if you want to thank me now for saving your ass from a lengthy prison term in FortLeavenworth.”
“Thanks.” Sal rolled his eyes.
Sneering at the insincere apology, Wilson jammed the jeep into gear and sped off. Several minutes later they arrived at a helipad where an unmarked, OD green Huey was prepared for departure. With his bag in hand, Sal followed Wilson into the chopper. They strapped themselves in, and the pilot lifted-off into the darkening skies.
Exhausted from his ordeal, Sal closed his eyes, hoping to grab a short cat-nap. After what seemed like a twenty-minute flight, he was awakened when the helicopter sharply descended and set down in a clearing in a remote part of the jungle. Stepping out of the helicopter, the two men crouched slightly until they cleared the blades.
Apparently a make-shift base camp, the compound was made up of four bamboo huts in close proximity to each other. There was a latrine and a structure that resembled a mess hall. “Where are we?” Sal asked, restlessly.
“This is our Area of Operations for Special Training in Laos.”
“So what exactly do you and your men do?”
“Everything will be revealed to you on a need-to-know basis. Roger that?”
“Yeah.” Sal set his bag down on the ground.
“Outstanding,” Wilson answered with attitude.
Approaching from one of the huts was a tall, thin young man, dressed in jungle fatigues. He had short, neatly combed hair, a clean-shaven face, piercing eyes and a bad attitude. Looking Sal over as if he were tonight’s main course, he coldly asked Wilson, “This our new meat?”
“Affirmative. Scalise, I want you to meet Smith. He’ll be overseeing your training for the next several weeks. Smith will be instructing you in hand-to-hand combat and martial arts warfare.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Smithy.” Sal said casually as he shook Smith’s hand.
Abruptly, Smith stopped shaking and cautioned menacingly. “My name is Smith. Understand? You refer to me only as Smith.”
“Awright!” Sal quickly withdrew his hand from the cold-blooded creature.
Out of the corner of his eye, Sal noticed three other young, clean-cut, tall, thin men dressed in jungle fatigues heading toward them. They were practically carbon copies of Smith, right down to his icy demeanor.
Introducing them one at a time, Wilson continued, �
�Scalise, this is Jones. He’ll be instructing you on small weapons warfare.” They shook hands. “This is Murphy. He’ll be your instructor for close-and long-range assassination.” They shook. “And last but not least, this is Levy. He’ll be instructing you on covert military tactics and reconnaissance.” Shaking the last man’s hand, Sal turned to Wilson and asked facetiously, “What’ll you be teaching me?”
“I’ll be instructing you on special op’s interrogation tactics and procedures.”
The men chuckled briefly and then eerily stopped simultaneously.
“Grab your gear and follow me, Scalise. You’ll be bunking in my hooch,” Smith ordered curtly.
Sal followed Smith into one of the bamboo huts. Pointing to a cot with a rolled up mattress lying on top of it, Smith explained, “That’s your rack. You can stow your gear in that foot locker.”
Glancing down at the empty foot locker at the base of his bunk, Sal noted the name stenciled on the lid. “Who’s Horan, Robert J.?”
Smith got right up into Sal’s face and barked, “Are you fucking stupid or something? That’s classified, asshole!”
“Awright, take it easy.”
“I guess you don’t fully understand your role in our little operation. You’re only here because you’re expendable. That means we don’t give a rat’s ass if you live or die as long as you do what you’re told. Roger that, troop?”
“Yeah,” Sal responded angrily.
“I’m really going to enjoy giving you your first lesson in the martial arts. Get your sleep tonight, Scalise. You’re gonna need it. We start tomorrow at 0500. Capisi?” Mockingly, Smith exaggerated the accent of his last word.
“Yeah, I understand,” Sal said as he glared into Smith’s cruel, dark eyes.
* * * * *
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The next morning at 0500 hours precisely, Sal stood in the center of the small camp facing Smith. The three other men Jones, Murphy, and Levy were positioned in a broken circle around the two combatants who prepared for a martial arts lesson. Seated at a desk in one of the bamboo huts, Wilson pored over paperwork and documents. Sporadically, he lifted his head to keep a watchful eye on the training exercise about to take place.
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